"Have you never given women your friendship?" she asked.
"Not in fifteen years--nor asked theirs."
"Will you not ask mine?"
I tried to speak steadily, but my voice was uncertain; I sat down,
crushed under a flood of memories, hopes accursed, ambitions damned
and consigned to oblivion.
"You are very kind," I said. "You are the Countess de Vassart. A man
is what he makes himself. I have made myself--with both eyes open; and
I am now an acrobat and a tamer of beasts. I understand your goodness,
your impulse to help those less fortunate than yourself. I also
understand that I have placed myself where I am, and that, having done
so deliberately, I cannot meet as friends and equals those who might
have been my equals if not friends. Besides that, I am a native of a
paradox--a Republic which, though caste-bound, knows no caste abroad.
I might, therefore, have been your friend if you had chosen to waive
the traditions of your continent and accept the traditions of mine.
But now, madame, I must beg permission to make my adieux."
She sprang up and caught both my hands in her ungloved hands. "Won't
you take my friendship--and give me yours--my friend?"
"Yes," I said, slowly. The blood beat in my temples, almost blinding
me; my heart hammered in my throat till I shivered.
As in a dream I bent forward; she abandoned her hands to me; and I
touched a woman's hands with my lips for the first time in fifteen
years.
"In all devotion and loyalty--and gratitude," I said.
"And in friendship--say it!"
"In friendship."
"Now you may go--if you desire to. When will you come again?"
"When may I?"
"When you will."